


You Lost My Mind

by BrazenMonkey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Drabbles, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1214275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrazenMonkey/pseuds/BrazenMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and shortcuts, dealing with Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane.<br/>Titel taken from We The Wild - You Lost My Mind</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything I Want I Have

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to create a little collection of drabble-ish works I wrote around this new OTP of mine. I enjoy writing lately so much and since you were all so kind as to give me so much feedback, I wanted to continue sharing, even if my works here are mainly short. The rating might change, depending on what will follow.
> 
> Con-Crit is highly appreciated!

Blinding, white light, like the sun bursts behind his closed eyelids.

And then he breathes fresh air, clean and warm, like the breeze of a spring’s day.

Warm, soft hands push back his hair and gently glide over his disfigured skin and he opens his eyes.

He must be dead.

She is sitting in his lap, beautiful as ever, her hair long and down, her skin as pristine as untouched snow and her sparklingly blue eyes focus on him with a gaze he would have never dreamt to be directed at him.

His arms wind around her without a conscious thought and he stares at her, in awe.

“Am I dead, little bird?”

Sansa smiles and thread her fingers through his hair again, softly detangling the little knots and smoothing it back to let the air graze his skin.

“Don’t hide from me.” she whispers as he tries to shake his locks back to cover his face.

“You never look at me, you are always afraid.” he insists but the rage he so often is consumed by surprisingly keeps from seeping into his chest. He cannot remember the last time he has been so full of pure bliss. Is it her? Or this place?

“I am looking at you now, am I not?” Her chuckle is a melodious song in his ears.

He shifts beneath her and realises there is no pain in his leg.

“Where am I?” He inquires as he stares at her again. She is startlingly gorgeous, all soft curves and smooth skin, willingly in his arms, pressed against his chest.

Sansa cocks her head. “I don’t know, I thought you knew?” Her hands travel down his head and thread behind his neck. “You brought me here, after all.”

He focuses on their surrounding for the first time and remembers. The tent of leaves above their head, the thick tree behind is back, the warm flow of air that bends the large meadow covered in grass and wildflowers.

“It looks like the clearing behind my grandfather’s cottage, somehow. I used to play here, as a child.” Before Gregor happened, he wants to add, but it feels wrong to bring up something unpleasant at this place. Darkness has no power here, he realizes, neither do fear or pain.

“Is this heaven?” he asks and takes her in again. “This is all just in my head, isn’t it?”

Sansa bends her head for their foreheads to meet. Their noses brush against each other and his senses are overwhelmed with her sweet scent.

“This is a dream.” he rasps but holds onto her only tighter.

“A good one, I hope?” She mutters and closes her eyes, her eyelashes brushing against his cheeks.

Something warm bubbles up in his throat. _Too good._

His hand moves out of its own account to touch her cheek and he is almost afraid that she will vanish beneath his touch. But he meets warm skin, tender and smooth.

“You will be gone when I wake up again, won’t you? You will fly away again, like the little bird you are, out of my hands, away from me. You would never be mine.” It is a worry he utters but his heart still feels light and strong.

Her eyes fly open again and her hands again cup his face. “I am yours now. For as long as you choose to stay with me.”

Yes, she is. Everything he wants could be his, here.

And he wants, has always wanted. Just to _have_ her, selfishly, only his to look at, only his to hold. Beyond the physical lust, beyond the craving to mark her as his, to lay her down right here and now and take her until they are both sore and raw and tender and truly each others. To have her desire and yearn for him as much as he does for her.

He wants to be the one she would dream of as he now dreams of her.

Every piece of him and every part of her, together.

Truly, not just in dreams. Which is why he cannot bear to stay. As much of a beautiful lie it is, it is a lie nevertheless.

His heart thumps in his throat and he takes one last, longing look at her. _One day._

He closes his eyes and lets go. 

* * *

Everything comes into focus again and the horrible pain in his leg, the cold sweat pouring down his face and the rough ground beneath his body pull him back into reality.

The Trident. The fight, his wound. His teeth grind against each other as terror floods his chest again and the throbbing pang sends him spinning.

For one second, he had knocked on the door of heaven.


	2. But You Have No Idea About Me, Do You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My take on the scene where Myrcella is sent off to Dorne. One of my favourite scenes of the entire season because of Cersei's speech to Tyrion. And of course I needed to adapt it to my favourite ship.
> 
> Unbeta'd. Your honest opinion is highly appreciated!

“One day, I pray you love someone.”

Cersei’s voice is detached, almost feigning aloofness, but he has been her guard for far too long not to detect the hidden stabs of vitriol, the pure unspoilt hatred that simmers beneath her words. The lioness still has claws, and she’ll soon be using it on the dwarf in revenge for the stealing of her daughter.

Sandor has to try hard to keep the scowl from his face. What would Cersei know about love? Fucking your own brother is hardly love, neither is the abusive way she treats him to do the dirty work for her. If Jaime had half a brain, he’d shove his shiny sword down her throat.

Then again, probably the Kingslayer even fancied himself truly in love with the hollow shell of creature called Cersei Lannister. Sandor winces. Pathetic. Not because he loves, but because he loves a lie, a distorted image of what he wants her to be and not what she actually is, namely a cold-hearted bitch.

And Cersei’s love for her children? That’s not love, it’s blind adoration for one little shit of a King who is delighted in other people’s misery, spends his days feeding his abnormal hunger for violence and does things to women that even made Sandor, a man who has seen more battlefields and disfigured bodies than he can count, shudder.

“I want that for you. I want you to know what it’s like to love someone, to truly love someone.”

What would Cersei know? What does she know about _burning_ for someone? Of the incapability this horrible feelings submits its victims to, incapability to think a single thought without the other one’s mark on it? How even the taste of the strongest wine cannot wash away the taint of the other one’s kisses? That no victory shines brighter than her smile? That nothing cuts you like being unable to protect the one from harm?

He swallows. Talk about being pathetic.

In that second, Cersei finishes her dark promise to Tyrion. “Before I take her from you.”

For a short moment, Sandor closes his eyes, and, true to the Queen’s prediction, he can see her, even smell her, her hair, her skin, taste her, her lips, her whimpers, her sighs.

He opens them and out of the corner of his eyes, he can spot her, regal and radiant. Cersei’s promise rings in his ears.

They can never be caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from: The Airborne Toxic Event - Graveyard Near the House
> 
> I usually choose the title from a line from the song I listened to while writing.


	3. Off the list

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavens, long time no post! But midnight writing is always nice.
> 
> I recently had my wisdom teeth removed and spent three days binge-watching old TV shows I used to love when I was younger. One of them was Charmed - don't judge - and I found one line from an episode from season 4 slightly interesting. Interesting enough to create this drabble all around it. Check the end notes for more details, otherwise it would spoil the drabble.
> 
> Soundtrack is the "Forgive Me" track from the fifth season's soundtrack of Game of Thrones. Ramin Djawadi is God.

When he appears in their yard one a bright autumn day when she and Arya take a morning walk, Sansa first thinks she sees a ghost. 

A tall, slightly limping ghost, who nevertheless looks more at ease and much more calm than the living man she knew.

By her side, Arya stiffens as well, and Sansa remembers the little Arya told her of her travels with the Hound. How she left him to die, and Sansa also remembers the hatred that had slammed into her stomach at that tale, mingled with sorrow over the lost innocence and kindness of her little sister.

But Sansa knows how to control emotions, a skill learnt the hard way, and had swallowed the prickling anger and sadness the moment it had taken control of her.

But now there he stands, a supposedly dead man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, with a stern and careful expression.

“Heard the Northern queen has come back into her nest. Heard that they might need able men who know how to fight.”

Of all the things he could have said upon their first meeting after all that time! Her fluttering heart fights against its cage of ribs and her hands become irritatingly sweaty. All that time it took her to grow up and here he is, making her feel like the stupid little girl she once was all over again. Maybe less stupid, but more of a girl, and maybe even more of a woman, too.

“They said you were dead,” Sansa answers incoherently. 

His lowers his gaze for a moment before answering her question. “The Hound is dead, yes. I am not.”

Sansa feels like there is a story hiding to be discovered but for now she does not care. She takes a tentative step towards the tall warrior and curses her stupid feet for being clumsy, her long arms to feel so awkward by her side. The warmth that spreads through her face is even less helpful in making her feel more confident as she searches his eyes.

But she finds only calmness in them and it gives her enough confidence to try a timid smile that is answered by the tug of a burnt corner of lips.

The happiness she feels only last a moment.

Someone pushes her aside and Sansa falls to her knees, the balls of her hands grazed by the rough ground. She quickly jumps back to her feet but the sight she is presented with freezes her joints.

Arya, a dagger in her hand – the dagger I gave her as a gift, Sansa realizes with dread – poised like a cat ready to pounce before the almost twice as tall Sandor. He seems just as surprised as Sansa is and hesitates to react. His hesitation is his downfall. Arya does strike as quick as a feline and the blade of the dagger slashes forward, aiming at the soft tissue right in the centre of Sandor’s stomach. His reflexes work, though and he dodges the fatal blow by a hair’s breadth. The dagger cuts through his cloak, through his tunic and rips the skin on the side of his ribs. He howls in pain and drops to his knees. 

It all happens so fast that Sansa has not even time to scream. 

Arya utters something like an angry hiss and rears back her hand, ready for another blow.

With a strength Sansa never knew she possessed she grab her younger sister by the hair and face and pulls her off the man on the ground, actively pushing herself between the two. Blood leaks from where the dagger has slit Sandor’s side and Sansa has only second to apprehend his injury before a flash of light reflected on steel catches her eyes. She whirls around to find Arya now armed with her Valyrian steel sword, the gift from Jon, in her right hand, ready to strike a second time.

She throws herself immediately in front of Sandor’s heaving chest while his hands is clutching the tear in his left side.

“No!”

Needle stops only inches from Sansa’s face and Arya’s fingers twitch impatiently from having to delay the fatal blow.

“Move.” This is not Arya talking anymore, Sansa realizes. She is back in Bravos, back to finishing her list. Back to being someone Sansa has never known nor understood, someone who frightens her much more than any nightmare of her past.

The grey irises of her little sister’s eyes do not focus properly, somewhere lost between the space over Sansa’s shoulder and Sandor’s body. “Arya, please!”

“He is on my list, and I thought I had cleared his name.” Her voice is sober and cold. Sansa can see ugly red scratches along Arya’s face where her fingernails had dug into the skin to tear her from Sandor.

Sansa smells the rusty scent of blood, whether it is from Sandor’s or Arya’s wound though she cannot tell. Both possibilities frighten her equally.

But he is not on her list anymore! she thinks.

“You have! You have cleared the Hound from your list, didn’t you?” Sansa’s eyes try to bore into her sister’s. “Arya, the Hound is dead. Remember what he said? Remember what he told me?”

For the fraction of a second grey flutters to catch blue and Sansa senses her chance.

“Who was on your list?”

Arya stares again over Sansa’s shoulder, her grip still tight on the handle of Needle. Sansa can hear Sandor muttering some obscenities but he is not her priority right now. The girl in front of her is. This girl, who is not Arya, who is not her tomboy of a sister, not the rough but kind girl she was raised with.

“Arya,” Sansa raises her voice, willing it to be steady and clear. “Arya, who was on your list?”

For a moment, Arya does not seem to register the question. Then, through almost closed lips, she whispers: “The Hound.”

“Exactly,” Sansa nods, hope fluttering in her chest that Arya might understand. “The Hound, not Sandor Clegane. Your revenge has been dealt. This man is not the one you seek.”

The point of the sword is still dangerously close to Sansa’s neck and her jugular vein. “You had your revenge,” Sansa reminds, emphasising each word. 

The blade first lowers, then completely drops to the ground before Arya pulls it back to disappear again in the sheath at her hips. And then, she disappears, before Sansa could even say a word, quick as a cat again, into the shadows of the keep.

“Little bird...” 

Only these two words uttered by this voice could pull Sansa out of her shocked state. She turns around and finds Sandor still crouching on the ground, his one hand pressed into his side, the fingers turned scarlet with rivulets of blood.

“Please tell me this freezing pile of rubble has a bloody master!” His rumble does nothing to hide the slight tremor of fear in his voice.

Sansa heaves a heavy sigh and suddenly finds herself clutching Sandor Clegane’s broad chest with both her hands, sobbing uncontrollably into his warmth. An arm circles her shoulders, the one not clutching the wound, and for a fleeting second, Sansa can pour her fear and worry into someone strong enough to carry them for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode in question was 4x08 "Black as Cole" from Charmed.
> 
> Basically, the episode dealt with revenge. A woman wanted to kill a man who had murdered someone very dear to her. That murderer was a man with two sides, good and evil, and she was after the evil one who committed the crime. But once the evil side had been killed, the good side was no longer guilty of sad crime. The Hound, anyone?
> 
> Feel free to comment leaving your honest opinion!

**Author's Note:**

> Title for this first installment taken from: Lana del Rey - Without You
> 
> I usually choose the title from a line from the song I listened to while writing.


End file.
